


To the Victor Goes the Spoils

by HorizonProspects



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: An AU or a UA????, For Skulls-and-Tea, He angsts so fuckin' hard, Irene gets mentioned like one time, John Angsts, Lestrade brand comforting, M/M, Meddling Mycroft, Multi, Pining John, Protective John, Slow Build, Tom Hiddleston is Victor Trevor, What Have I Done, not sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:31:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1373983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HorizonProspects/pseuds/HorizonProspects
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m being replaced.” John groans.<br/>“What are you talking about John?” Greg turns to face him fully. He lifts his head just barely.<br/>“I’m being replaced by that bloody tweed-suited, curly haired, Vivaldi loving twat. Who I’m sure is down at Baker Street now snogging Sherlock as we speak.” </p><p>[Working Title]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Splinters in the Itinerary

“So that’s the plan then?”

“Yes it is.”

“I like it, sign me up.”

 

John firmly shuts the door of 221B behind him as Sherlock draws out the final notes of the piece he plays upstairs. John slips of his shoes and hangs his coat as the flat falls into silence. John waits expectantly for Sherlock to begin another song. But he doesn’t and the single beat of silence seems like an eternity.

Then John hears clapping, quick and sharp, fingertips against the meat of a palm. It lasts only a moment and by the time John has sprinted up the stairs the gunfire clapping has stopped. The trenches are silent for the moment and the enemy prepares another volley.

He’s grinning unabashedly at Sherlock and the consulting detective smiles softly back.

“That was lovely Sherlock, absolutely lovely.” The man is sitting on the couch with a cup of tea clasped between long delicate fingers. “As it always is.” The man takes a sip of his tea and Sherlock finally turns his attention on John.

“Ah, John. You’re home early.”

“Last client didn’t show,” The man says bluntly and takes another sip of his tea. Sherlock grins a little wider.

“That’s actually correct for once Trevor,” The man gives a soft little laugh as John looks from him to Sherlock in confusion.

“You flatter me Sherlock.”

“Sherlock...” John begins as the man stands and sets his tea down.

“Holmes clearly hasn’t spoken a lick about me to you then John.” The man says, brushing not-there dust from his suit and holding out one tanned hand to John. If John flinches back no one mentions it. Which he shakes uneasily as the man continues talking. “I’m Victor, Victor Trevor, and old... friend.” John looks to Sherlock who nods and lifts his violin into place again. Victor steps back and settles in with his tea

“Victor works for the government-”

“Minor position, not Mycroft minor mind you.”

“And has been moved back to London.” Sherlock finishes over Victor. He strikes his bow across violin strings and makes it clear the conversation is over.

John stands in the doorway of the main room in dumbfounded silence as Sherlock plays and Victor watches with rapt attention. There is a knot inside his gut and he doesn’t know why. It’s not even a knot it’s a serpentine mass that’s trying to carve its way out of John with dull bayonet teeth. John’s too busy fighting it to do anything but turn and head upstairs as Sherlock finishes another piece.

 

 

John scalds himself in the shower; he runs the water from the highest heat and tried to turn it up even more. He can still hear Sherlock’s violin even when he puts his head under the almost boiling water. He dries and changes in a blur and comes back to himself standing at the top of the stairs, white knuckled hand on the railing. The beast in his stomach is settled for now, as has Sherlock’s violin. John hears the squeaking of the couch’s one bad spring and leans forward a little like its going to help him listen.

“Same time tomorrow?” Victor asks, footsteps lead off into the kitchen. John hears the soft sounds of Sherlock putting his violin away and a cup being set in the sink.

“Unless Lestrade can come up with an interesting case before then.”

“Would you mind if I tagged along?” No, John’s hand tightens on the railing. His mind screams no at him. All he has to do it go downstairs and shoo that head of auburn curls out of 221B and shout after him to never return and this feeling will just go away.

“Just stay out of the way.” But he doesn’t. John is riveted to his spot; a stiletto splinter from the railing digs into his palm and he only holds on tighter. Oh, how he wants it to go away. All of it, every last thing to just pack up and leave him alone.

“Alright then.” More footsteps as Victor heads for the stairs. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” The stairs creak softly as Victor departs. The door closes and John turns away from the stairs to return to his room. One thing has left but he just feels worse.

He doesn’t turn the lights on in his room, just lays atop his sheets in the dimness of the evening light. His splintered palm throbs in time with his heart. The muscles deep down in the depths of his shoulder ache.

Everything suddenly aches, he comes to realize. He shouldn’t be up here wallowing. He should be downstairs making sure Sherlock ate while he was away and didn’t ruin the kitchen and finding out what Sherlock’s standings with Victor really are and not laying here moping- is he really moping? Oh god, he is moping. Why on earth is he moping? He has no reason to be moping.

But there is, he turns onto one side and watches the light from downstairs the drifts under the door as the tiny voice in his head pushes tainted thoughts to the forefront. No, that would never happen, he’s got to much of a place in Sherlock’s life. But it could, it so easily could.

John has often considered to idea of losing Sherlock to someone else, someone more interesting, someone smarter. Someone like her or the man who had been sitting on the couch a little while ago.

The light goes out from under the door and John stays awake until light returns through the window. His palm throbs.


	2. A Phosphorescent Substitute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure Sundays are going to be update days for this. So have another chapter. 
> 
>    
> Note Beta-read still, so if you find things like spelling errors and grammar errors I missed please let me know.

“Our plan is a go then?”

“Yes it is.”

“Very good.”

 

John wakes before the sun does. He just lays in his sleep-wear, as the sun comes up and coats his room a honeyed gold. It’s something he normally admires, but he can’t, he just can’t this morning. So he gets up and forces himself through his morning routine like normal until he finds himself at the top of the stairs. His daze sinks away as he listens for the soft sounds of Sherlock moving about below.

There are none.

Not a whispering of a chemical reaction, the hum of the telly, the sound of pacing footsteps or the pattering of laptop keys as Sherlock types on it. John heads down the stairs, expecting to find Sherlock spread out along the couch fingers steepled under his chin, face blank as he thinks and suddenly comes to a realization and dashes to grab his scarf and Belstaff before leaving with John trailing happily behind. That’s what would normally happen, but when John sees the empty couch his stomach twists again in unease with the idea that everything is changing.

John prepares a cuppa and settles in at the kitchen table.

Sherlock’s probably just sleeping, John tightens his grip on his tea mug. He’s been having particularly late nights and no matter how much the    consulting detective denies it, his body still needs sleep. Yeah, that’s it, Sherlock’s body has finally betrayed his mind, and John is actually going to enjoy this peaceful morning.

“Who am I kidding,” John breathes out as he stands and walks to the sitting room, tea forgotten. He halts besides his chair and looks about the to-still room. Sherlock is always doing something in the sitting room, moving things, pacing, writing, thinking, eating, experimenting, shouting at the telly. The stillness is eerie and makes the hairs on the back of John’s neck stick up.

He sits in Sherlock’s chair and attempts to read.

It takes John half an hour to give up on his endless turning of book pages and another ten to actually put the book down. John pulls his legs up onto the chair with him and wraps his arms around them. He rests his head on the tops of his knees and closes his eyes.

“Relax Watson,” He breathes out. He’s just got to relax, work stresses and Sherlock not having a case the past few days have just left him very sensitive to this unexpected addition. He’s just over reacting because of stress. That’s it; that’s why he feels so off John tells himself.

He tightens the grip of his arms around his knees and just focuses on his breathing. In and hold, and out and hold, in and hold, and out and hold over and over again. John thinks of his breathing and only his breathing, ignoring as best he can every sound and smell and feeling until he relaxes. He’s got to relax and actually let himself think or he’ll be unable to change anything. He’ll be trapped by the actions of others and stuck with whatever they give him.

John groans and takes more deep breaths, forcing his mind back away from actual thinking and back to his breathing.

Slowly, oh ever so slowly does John feel his shoulders eventually relax. He lets out a little sigh of appreciation and shifts in his --Sherlock’s-- seat. He lets his hands release their vice-grips on each other and resettle on his knees. John leans backwards against the backing of Sherlock’s chair; his eyes stay closed without him having to force it. He finally relaxes.

  


“John, John, John wake up.” there’s a hand on his shoulder and a voice --Sherlock's he realizes-- in his ear. With a wide yawn John looks up to see Sherlock in all his detective regalia standing over him. Quicksilver eyes take only a moment to read every detail of John’s morning before the detective takes a step back.

“Does he really bother you that much,” Sherlock asks, pulling his scarf off his neck. John does not stare. “Or am I just missing data once more?”

John shakes his head.

“No, everything is-” wrong and I’m terrified of being replaced or put off to the side like some invalid again. “fine. Just a little stress from work carrying over.” For a moment Sherlock squints and stares at John before nodding.

“Alright,” Sherlock turns away and vanishes into his room, leaving John alone to stare after him.

 

 

Sherlock doesn’t leave him room for almost two hours. John putters about, attempts to finish his tea, does dishes and opens his laptop only to erase the same sentence ten dozen times before closing it again. He sits back and finds himself looking over towards Sherlock’s room every few minutes.

John heaves himself up and resigns to his desperation.

“Sherlock,” he begins, knocking on the detective’s door. “What are you up to?”

“Why does it matter?” Sherlock replies through the door, sounding slightly aggravated.

Because I’m desperate for contact with you and scared out of my mind that you’ll leave with Victor if I don’t and have him replace me. I’ll do anything to prevent that, so just let me in. Please, Sherlock, just let me in again.

“Just curious,” There’s a moment of silence before the unlocking of Sherlock’s door click-clicks through the almost silent flat

“Try to stay out of the way,” Sherlock says as he opens the door to reveal the pick blackness inside his room. The vague silhouette that is Sherlock at the door turns around. John follows after him and waits for his eyes to adjust.

“Close the door already,” Sherlock practically hisses from somewhere across the room.

“Alright, alright,” John closes the door and moves his hand from hand doorknob to the wall to blindly search for the lightswitch. “Why is it so bloody dark in here anyway?”

“Experime- John!” Sherlock's hand snatches at John’s wrist and yanks him away from the wall. He stumbles at the unexpected pull and finds himself close enough to feel Sherlock’s body heat in the detective’s chilly room “Don’t touch the lights! I need it completely dark in here.”

“Don’t touch the lights, got it.” John repeats as Sherlock lets go of his wrist and moves the hand to the small of John’s back. “Sherlock, w-what are you doing?”

“Leading you to the bed.”

“What?”

“I’ve moved the furniture in my room since you last saw in and I don’t need to stepping on the petri dishes. I’m unsure if any of the substances could corrode the floor or your shoes yet. Haven’t gotten to that test yet.” Sherlock attempts to explain as he herds John along the edge of the room and to the corner of his bed tucked in the far corner.

“Again, what?” John feels the from of his legs hit the side of the mattress and turns so he can sit.

“I’m trying to recreate a bacteria for my newest case.” Sherlock continues, stepping away from John. “But I’m having little success so far.” John can hear the clinking of glasses and the pouring of some liquid. “Though if this experiment turns out how we theorized it will then we’ll be sure it was the step brother.” More clinking of glass and the sound as Sherlock stands and shuffles about some are all John can hear. He just sits off to the side, glad Sherlock can’t see the ridiculous grin on his face.

For the moment he can pretend they’re in the kitchen and Sherlock’s doing another experiment with body parts and everything is normal. He can pretends everything is normal and that the knot in his stomach is anything but what it is. For the moment he can pretend every is fine.

“John, John, Watson.” Fingers snap between Johns eyes once, twice, three times and then he’s focusing on Sherlock’s sharp eyes that look straight at him.

“Yep, I’m here. What is it?” Sherlock grins like a fiend and lifts a petri dish between them. It takes John a moment to realize what he’s looking at.

“A glowing petri dish?” Sherlock steps away and the soft green-blue glow fades from around John.

“No, glowing E.Coli John.” Sherlock is still grinning as he pulls his phone from the pocket of his trousers. “So Vic was correct,” Sherlock mutters to himself, tapping away at his phone screen with one thumb as he walks towards the door.

He flips on the lights with his elbow; John covers his eyes at the sudden flood of brightness. He blinks rapidly a moment later to find Sherlock with the door open, still typing and petri dishes of various size colors and content on every horizontal surface.

“Where did you get all of these?” John asks, standing and picking his way across the minefield of petri dishes on the floor.

“Barts, Vic swiped them while I distracted Molly.” Sherlock continues to rapidly type out texts as he replies. John stops half-way through his trek across the room as Sherlock looks up. He’s got a nickname; Sherlock has a nickname for Victor and it makes the knot in John’s stomach twist more. Sherlock doesn’t give people nicknames, as far as John knew he didn’t.

“John,” Sherlock looks down to see if John had stepped on a petri dish. “Come on,” He steps the the open doorway and gestures with his phone-holding hand for John to follow. “We’re meeting Lestrade at the brother’s house.” John nods and continues to pick his way across the room. His hand tremors a little as he dares to ask.

“Is Victor going to be there?” Sherlock looks up from his phone for a moment before shaking his head.

“No,” He sends off another text and tucks his phone away as he heads for the door. John lets of a long breath and grins the tiniest bit as he follows after Sherlock. Maybe everything really is fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the Kudos, Comments and Bookmarks. It just motivates me to write more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of a short chapter I guess. Hope you enjoy either way.

“John isn’t acting how we planned.”   
“All should go accordingly, just follow the plan.”   
“Of course” 

John slips into the cab beside Sherlock as he rattles off an address to the driver. The excitement of being on a case again has John drumming his fingers on his thighs and looking over the Sherlock every few moments. The consulting detective is, for the most part, still, blinks few and far between as he stares out the window on his side of the cab and occasionally checks his phone to send off another test. Once he looks up and catches John’s eye. They exchange little smiles and Sherlock’s eyes flick across John before he speaks.  
“Is your practice really so lacking that a case as dry as this one elicits excitement out of you?” John rolls his eyes and shakes his head.  
“I’m just excited to get a case.” Sherlock nods and looks back at his phone. He frowns at his phone for a moment, texts back and tucks his phone away. “Who was that Sherlock?” Sherlock shakes his head and looks out the window.  
“Nothing important.”  
“You don’t reply to anything that isn’t important.”  
“Nothing important to you John.” The dismissal stings like a whip. John looks out his own window and nods to himself, crossing his arms and pulling his shoulders in close like it’ll help fend off the internal pain.   
It’s irrational to think Sherlock would share every little detail of his life with John, and John knows it. He knows this jealousy of an old friend appearing is irrational. John has run into dozens of old friends while living with Sherlock and the detective seemed to think nothing of it. Sherlock only broods when Anderson is on the same case as him, or when Mycroft visits, or he runs out of nicotine patches. John’s brooding jealousy is out of place, irrational, and uncalled for. He know it. Though for whatever reason it stays and eats away at John’s insides. He can’t help it, and even if he could John isn’t sure how he would.  
John sulks and Sherlock texts until the cab pulls up alongside a particularly unremarkable building. John would have thought nothing of the building had there not been a pair of police cars along the curb.   
John pays the cabbie as Sherlock gets out and strides off towards the building and Lestrade who stands outside with another figure turned away from John. Who can’t recognize the back of the man’s head from that distance, but the pea coat looks extremely familiar. Another detective maybe? He’ll find out soon enough.  
The cab peels away and John turns to approach the trio. His stomach twists as he recognizes the ginger curls atop the pea coat and the long legs under them. No, Sherlock said he wasn’t going to be there.  
“You thought I’d just up and leave in the middle of a case?” John flinches at the voice and slows his approach, feeling all his energy drain as he prolongs the inevitable. “This is far too enjoyable to do that Holmes.” Victor grins wide at Sherlock who merely nods in return. Lestrade looks from one to the other and then to John.  
“We can’t find anything about where he could be.” Lestrade begins, “It appears that he isn’t here or his workplace. See if you can come up with anything else Holmes,” Lestrade gives a dismissive wave and Sherlock is up the stairs and gone, a storm of dark coat tails with a shadow of ginger curls.   
John stands with Lestrade in the aftermath for a long long while before the silence is broken.  
“So who’s he?” John blinks and realizes what Lestrade means.  
“Victor, Victor Trevor.” Lestrade looks over at him from the corner of his eye.  
“Yes, he introduced himself earlier when he showed up at the crime scene. But, who is he? Sherlock’s never mentioned him before, and he just shows up four hours ago with Sherlock at a crime scene like it’s the most natural thing.” John tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket to hide the balled fists as Lestrade continues. “I figure you’ve got to know about him, so...”  
“I don’t know,” John takes a breath and closes his eyes for a moment to collect himself. Even just the thought of Victor makes his stomach turn.”He was at the flat when I came home last night and left shortly after. It was five, ten minutes at the most. That and this little second here are all I’ve even seen of him.”   
“Well, what do you think of him?”  
“Don’t like him.” Lestrade pauses and looks over at John for a moment before he asks.  
“Why?” John shrugs, because his instincts tell him not to trust Victor, and everything about the man just seems wrong, so very wrong to John. He leaves a palpable taint in the air that leaves John weak in the knees and sick to the core.  
“Don’t know, he just gives me a bad feeling.” Lestrade nods and stays quiet. John feels tension return to his shoulders and sighs as he looks up at the widows on the building. 

It feels like an eternity John stands there, clenching and unclenching his fists in a useless expression of discomfort. John’s throat feels impossibly dry and that makes it hard to swallow the taste of bile on his tongue. He coughs weakly and closes his eyes for another moment. The silence as he coughing fades os deafening to John. He clenches his hands again under Lestrade’s scrutiny. A warm hand on John’s shoulder pulls him back into reality.  
“After this case is over you wanna head to the pub for a pint?” Lestrade removes his hand.  
“Yeah,” John nods and Lestrade grins. “That’ll be nice.” and normal and everything will be fine by then.   
Everything will be fine by the time the case is over.  
“Lestrade!” Sherlock’s baritone echoes from the house and into the street. “Lestrade! We know where he is.”   
Everything shifts back to Sherlock as the consulting detective leaps down the steps from the door to the street. He sweeps towards Lestrade and John.  
“The brother didn’t use the laboratory he works at, to risky.” Sherlock stops and faces the pair. “He used another lab to manufacture the bacteria.”  
“Cabbie!” John turns his head to see Victor wave down a cab and pull open to door. “Sherlock! Come one! We can’t let him destroy all the evidence!” Sherlock turns and joins Victor, John hurries after him, leaving Lestrade to watch the three slip into the cab before it peels down the street.


End file.
